Running to Remember

It was the second week of September. I was in Maine for my honeymoon. The air was crisp, the summer crowds were gone and the Twin Towers were burning. I was training for the New York City Marathon but more specifically for the U.S. marathon championships to be held in conjunction with the race. There was never a doubt in my mind that the race would take place. So I continued to run in silence among the lakes and the fall-tinged leaves--to dance around the track in what now seemed like a senseless endeavor. How could I go for a run when people were forced to jump from the 100th floor? "Can you imagine how bad it must have been for someone to do that?" I asked my wife, Robyn. She hesitated, searching for an answer. "You have to go on; you can't give in. What else are you going to do?" Her advice sounded trite and I had a hard time accepting it, but of course she was right.

Still, I felt guilty. A guilt born of an illogical reaction to an irrational act of misplaced hatred and fear. I was alive. I was safe. My friends and family were healthy. And of course I ran. It's what we runners do to cope with life's uncertainties, to make sense of the senseless--that somehow by taking that first stiff, lumbering, seemingly insignificant step, things will work out. Step by step until the cadence builds, breathing hard, legs begin to burn and the pain that comes is good because it means life and a willful sacrifice towards progress. And as lactic acid fills your legs and doubts assail you, the only way to continue is to forget.

During my stay in Maine, I ran 130 miles per week. (Some honeymoon, huh?) I pushed myself like never before. I ran the endless carriage roads of Bar Harbor and took a respite from reality. I lost myself in the sound of shoes on gravel and the freedom of running, of breathing deeply.

We ended up staying with friends. My parents, unable to get a flight back to Colorado, decided to join us as well. Again, some honeymoon, but in the wake of the events it was a blessing to have loved ones close. We ate lobster, drank good wine and talked about the events of the past week in a surreal, detached manner. We dwelled on the details and the technicalities of the act itself and not on the aftermath. What type of plane had they used? How had their plans gone undetected? How had the terrorist targeting the Pentagon gotten on a plane with box cutters? Anything to distract us from the why and the unimaginable suffering that took place as a consequence of that answer.

When I was young, I watched diminutive and powerful Tanzanian Juma Ikangaa battle the sleek and graceful Ibrahim Hussein on TV. Juma always seemed to come in second but he ran with a fierce determination. He ran from the front with a willful disregard for the limits of the human body. As Ibrahim pulled away, I remember thinking, "Why doesn't he [Juma] just run harder?" Inevitably, I learned that success isn't always a question of willpower, that sometimes fate is stacked against you and the outcome seemingly determined.

But as I sat on the bus headed for the starting line and stared at the horizon where the Towers once stood, I knew this wasn't going to be one of those times. I ran with abandon. I followed the lead pack through the first 8 miles at a 4:48-per-mile clip, a pace that was beyond my abilities and impossible to sustain. I relented and was soon in no-man's land but I was never really alone. The people of New York filled the streets en masse. By the halfway point, I was suffering from a side stitch that finally gave way as I reached the Queensboro Bridge at about the 15-mile mark. Here the course begins to climb steeply before descending into Manhattan. The bridge is one of the few places spectators aren't allowed. It's a shock to be thrust suddenly into an eerie windswept silence after the perpetual shouts of encouragement, then, coming off the bridge, to be engulfed on First Avenue by what's the largest and loudest crowd along the course.

In Central Park, with 3 miles to go, I began to pay for my early exuberance. My legs were thrashed. I slowed but persevered, buoyed by the collective will of a city. I'd run in defense of and for a human ideal incommunicable but palpable to every runner and spectator. Yet unlike my time in Maine, I ran not to forget but to remember.

Scott Larson won the 2001 U.S. marathon championship and placed 13th overall (2:15:26) at the New York City Marathon seven weeks after the 9/11 terrorists attacks.

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